"Moments after my daughter's birth, I was in tears, though not the kind I was expecting. My wife, Meghan, had just endured a grueling 18-hour labor, and I was standing at the foot of her bed as the doctor retrieved a ruddy, shrieking alien from between her legs and placed it in her arms. "She's certainly vigorous," the doctor said, her voice overly upbeat. "At least you won't have to worry about her not communicating her needs."
"Outside, the sky was a perfect June blue in Seattle, the Olympic Mountains jutting out clear and white against the horizon. I thought about how, just a few days prior, Meghan and I had watched a breakdance performance at the Neptune Theatre, gone out for Indian food, bought Kewpie mayo at Costco. The modest makings of a life I'd now give anything to reclaim. I stared at this being - my daughter - in disbelief. I wasn't overcome by the miracle of life."
A father stands at the foot of his wife's bed after an 18-hour labor as their newborn daughter cries vigorously. Breastfeeding proves difficult; parents syringe-feed colostrum and attempt swaddling and skin-to-skin contact without success. The father feels intense regret and longing for the couple's previous life, uttering "I miss us" and feeling guilty for those words given his wife's trauma. The hospital's fluorescent room contrasts with clear Seattle skies and memories of normal outings. The father experiences disbelief and a lack of immediate joy, feeling haunted by the decision to have a child.
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